A Walk in the Woods

To My Beloved Reader,

I cannot with any assurance state that this will be the most nerve shattering tale ever conceived by the misguided mind of man, but I can solemnly swear to you that its intention is not only to shock and surprise, but also to arouse naught but the most bestial emotions from deep within you. Our tale this evening concerns a most pure and delicate maiden, barely eighteen years of age. To say that Charlotte (for that was the young lady’s name) was possessed of the most striking beauty would be a dreadful understatement. Her straight, dusky hair made the blackest ebony weep with envy. Her electric blue eyes shamed the most brilliant sapphires. The milky white skin was as silky and as smooth as the finest alabaster. The luscious curves of her body were enough to make even the most stalwart clergyman quiver with lust. The most striking feature of our dear Charlotte had to be her lips. Oh yes, those lips. Naturally they held the color that lies beneath freshly cleaved skin. A deep crimson red that was matched only by the virginal blood left after a woman’s first time in the act of love.

Charlotte was the only child of a poor family that lived just on the edge of the Ardennes. Her father Francois was a simple farmer, her mother Denise a seamstress. More than once comparisons were made in the town tavern, (then called the Black Rose) how these folk were the rotting pile of compost from which sprang a most lovely blossom. It was understood by her parents that Charlotte would soon take up a trade and settle into the same life of drudgery as they had done many years ago, but the young maiden unbeknownst to her parents had much different ideas. Our poor Charlotte longed for some sort of relief from the provincial purgatory, which she seemed to be permanently exiled to. And while it was true that there were plenty of able-bodied young men with whom she could pass the time she had no desire to hear their constant bragging of their skill with the fairer sex. Especially considering the best these boys could muster was a thrilling evening of unbridled lust with their fathers’ prized sheep. Besides, Charlotte had already discovered that she could bring the wondrous rapture of orgasm to herself with a few well-placed strokes of her very skillful fingers. She was certain that this would be considered sinful by her parents and by the Church, but in the end she decided that if God had not wanted her to delight in her own touch He would have made her arms shorter.

Whenever her mind was wakeful during the late hours Charlotte often found herself walking into the leafy canopy of the Ardennes. At least here, she thought, she would be able to escape the everyday boredom that was her life. At home there was naught but needles, thread, and boys’ tales of their massive pikestaffs. Here in the lush growth of the forest however, was a world where anything was possible. From her days as a little girl, she had been told stories about the many otherworldly creatures and beings that dwelled deep in the bosom of the woods. It was said that long ago, dragons lived here along with wizards, fairies, and a host of other things that held a great deal more appeal than a farm boy clumsily fondling her breasts.

With her mind deep in thought it was impossible for Charlotte to say how long she had been walking. Only that now the forest seemed much thicker and fuller, almost as if it had a life of its own. Not as a collection of millions of different things, as she understood it truly to be but as a whole. It almost seemed to breathe softly in her ear. Unsure of her direction, Charlotte looked up to try and see the position of the moon, but this was no help as the canopy of the great elms blocked out the sky completely. Somewhere in the distance a beast howled, its voice shattering the stillness like a hammer through glass. In spite of herself the young maiden suppressed a shiver. She knew there was nothing to be afraid of. She had been told countless times that the beasts of the woods only sing once they have already made a kill. She hoped the tales were true.

Just then, a soft wind blew across the forest floor sending a tantalizing breeze underneath her skirt. Charlotte flushed for a moment as she could swear she felt a soft hand caressing her inner thigh, but dismissed the thought almost as quickly, as she knew it must be some trick of the wind. Although she wondered, why had the breeze not disturbed any of the leaves on the forest floor? She had heard tales from some of the boys in town about mischievous entities in the woods that delighted in playing the most sinful tricks on mortals, especially young, beautiful maidens like her. But that was only child’s play. Nevertheless, she felt that she should be heading back, lest she be lackadaisical in her chores tomorrow from not sleeping well. After a short while she saw a small cabin in a clearing. She had not seen this particular structure on her trek into the forest, so she determined that she must have gotten turned around somewhere. The wind was picking up now and Charlotte spied a lit lantern in the window of the cabin.

As she peered slowly into the side window there appeared to be nobody at home. The cabin was decently furnished, a bed, table, and rocking chair, with a fire burning ever so invitingly in the hearth. It seemed that whoever the occupant was, he or she had no plans on being gone for very long, but still the warm and cozy scene kept reminding Charlotte of how awfully chilly it was out in the night air. With an audacity that her father would surely chide her for if he ever found out, she made her way towards the front door.

Now I realize dear reader that nothing truly extraordinary has happened as of yet in our tale tonight. But I caution you just to be patient and observe a little while longer. The benefits of this could be only too clear, for if our dear Charlotte had taken the same advice while at the cabin window she would have seen the rocking chair within begin to slowly rock with no occupant in its seat and the covers of the bed slowly pull themselves down of their own accord. As it was though the lovely maiden saw none of this as she slowly turned the knob and let herself into the cabin. Closing the door behind her, she immediately felt the pleasant warmth of this little domicile washing over her. It was after all a cheery sort of room even with a few small drawings on the wall. Each rendering she noted was of a young girl. All of them appeared to be not quite in their 20th year and all wearing nothing but the glory of their supple bare skin. Whoever this artist was (she thought) he has excellent taste. Perhaps he’d even do a drawing of me if I ask politely. Suddenly suppressing a yawn Charlotte realized how tired she was. She had been walking an awfully long time and while the bed looked ever so inviting, she knew her father would simply hide her if he knew she had slept in a stranger’s bed. So she daintily lowered her wondrously supple backside into the rocking chair by the fire instead. Within seconds she found herself pulling her shoes off and stretching out, letting the fire warm her feet. As could be expected, in the lap of such comfort she soon found herself dozing off.

While she was asleep, Charlotte had what could only be described as a fitful set of dreams. She felt warm hands caressing her soft skin. Oh how she wanted more. These were not the hands of an inept peasant boy. These were the hands of a true lover. She giggled in spite of herself as she felt hands creeping into her blouse tantalizing her smooth flat stomach. That special warmth grew between her legs as she longed for her unseen consort to continue his loving pilgrimage. She could never remember having such vivid dreams as she felt the caressing hands slowly move lower, gently arousing her in her most intimate of areas. Suddenly her eyes snapped open, and she looked about her surroundings. She was still in the cabin, and still in the rocking chair. She was breathing very heavily and her skin had just a hint of perspiration on it, causing her to glow in the firelight. Most disturbing of all though is that she saw that her blouse had been fully undone, and her skirt was unfastened! Surely she could not have done all this in her sleep…could she? It mattered not if she had disheveled herself in a fit of dreaming lust or not, she felt it best to leave before the cabin’s occupant returned to find her in such a shameful state.

She quickly dressed herself as best she could and opened the door only to find the knob snatched from her hand as the door closed itself, sealing her in the cabin. The rocking chair was once again rocking of its own accord and a soft laughter could be heard coming from every corner of the room. A deep velvety voice seemed to sensuously whisper in Charlotte’s ear.

“Was it really so unpleasant?” Charlotte wheeled herself around only to find she was staring into empty space. Again she heard the throaty, whispering laughter. The frightened girl felt a delightful shiver. Someone or something was gently blowing in her ear. In spite of herself, Charlotte began to speak.

“Who, what are you?” Soft, almost patronizing laughter caressed her ear.

“I am no one. I was once an artist. You see my work on the walls around you.”
Even though she had seen the drawings before Charlotte felt compelled to once again view the objects d’art. To her amazement the sketches had transformed themselves. Gone were the simplistic sketches of the soft young maidens, and in their place were depictions of the same maidens engaging in all manner of depravity. One was lovingly taking a huge phallus into her mouth, another was copulating with a group of no less than ten men, and still another was engaging in the fiercest act of love with a corpse. Charlotte felt her legs turn to water as she viewed these most disturbing, yet subtly intriguing images. Each one held a most revolting scene, but human nature demanded that she take in each and every one. Just like in her dream she now felt the same silky, unseen hands gently caressing her. The fingertips were raising goose bumps along the gentle curve of her neck. Charlotte closed her eyes and began to surrender to the experience when the images of the wall sketches leaped into her mind.

“No!” She yelled as she jumped away.

“I have no desire to do that.” She motioned to the drawings. A deep, booming laughter filled the room.

“I have no intention that you should. Why would I want to engage in the same pleasure twice? My dear Charlotte, I only wish to give you the same gift I gave to all these women. Each of these fair flowers held a secret desire, denied to them by their surroundings. In your case it is simply a relief from provincial monotony that you seek. Won’t you let me help you? After all, I know all your secret desires.” With these words Charlotte felt the invisible hands softly tickling between her breasts. She closed her eyes as she felt her delicate pink nipples being gently kissed. The moisture between her legs grew warmer as the dead man softly kissed her with unseen lips. She knew deep down that this was not just wrong, but sinful, even unholy. Her whole childhood was spent being taught the catechism and the rapture of serving Christ. She read the words but never felt anything close to the wonder of having a dead artist slowly suckling her nipples.

Slowly she felt him lowering her onto the warm, inviting bed. She felt nothing of him but the soft caress of his fingers touching her in places that she never knew could radiate such immense pleasure, and in the most delightful moments, she felt his lips and tongue bringing heavy breaths out of her with ever-increasing frequency. In between passionate breaths she asked,

“What is your name?” To which her unseen companion replied by gently licking in her navel causing Charlotte to arch her back like a contented pussycat. Slowly she felt her wrists being tied to the bedposts with some very expensive looking silk scarves. Charlotte arched her back further as she softly whispered,

“Let me see you, please, your face.” The artist began to lick around her navel, and then moved lower saying,

“Very well Cherie, open your eyes now.” With this, Charlotte let out a blood- curdling shriek. A talking corpse had just lifted his rotting face from in between her thighs. The worst of it was the smell. An almost visible green miasma penetrated her lungs, filling her up with the overwhelming stench of death. She strained to get up but found herself smartly tied to the bed. The artist looked down at her with his empty eye-sockets. His skeletal visage was completely expressionless.

“How you carry on so. Is this not what you wanted? Did you not want something far beyond the realm of your own life? Well now you have it. You did not mind making love with a dead man when you did not have to see the abomination touching you. Allow me to alleviate your stress.” And with this, he plunged a skeletal finger down into each of her eyeballs. Through her shriek of pain, Charlotte could feel the corpse slide between her legs.

“After you finally leave this life, when I have taken every bit of warmth I can from you, I will then add you to my sketchbook. You will be the crown jewel of my collection.” Charlotte tried to scream again, but found her mouth filled with his still slithery, rotting tongue. Her face became a horrified mix of tears and blood, and her last thought before she passed out was how much she longed for the simple life of a farmer’s daughter.

Word Count: 2472