You have no idea how pleased I am to announce that my brand new short story “Little Red” is now available on Bellesa.co!
I must admit, I was nervous about putting this story out there. I thought it might be too niche, too intense, a few shades darker than what my readers generally expect.
Maybe it was the characters and their eagerness to engage in an edgier type of D/s play. Or maybe it was the combination of tropes that struck a chord.
Either way, I couldn’t let this story languish on my hard drive. I wanted to find it a home somewhere, and that home is now Bellesa.co.
Please be aware that this story is not for everyone. It involves consenting adults participating in a non-consensual role play, featuring age play and light DD/lg elements.
If that makes you feel squicky, fear not, because I have plenty of other Bellesa stories (kinky and vanilla) to choose from.
However, if this combination of darker tropes has your mouth watering, you can head on over to Bellesa.co to read it for FREE.
Read on for a short excerpt from “Little Red” by Rachel Woe.
Julian slides back behind the wheel, and though his appearance remains the same, everything about him is different .
“What’s this,” he says with a playful lilt. “A little thing like you shouldn’t be out here all by herself. Who knows what kind of monsters roam these woods.”
Gooseflesh prickles across Robin’s arms and legs. She feels the urge to pee. Her stomach seizes as she locks eyes with Julian in the rearview mirror. She tucks her chin and opens her eyes china-doll wide. “My daddy was supposed to pick me up.”
Julian turns to study her, the hunger in his gaze even more tangible without the mirror between them. He hasn’t seen this dress before, and judging from the look he’s giving the butterfly buttons, she suspects she won’t be wearing it for long. “What’s your name, sweetheart?”
“Red,” she squeaks, donning the epithet he chose for her on account of the way her breasts flush when she’s aroused.
“How old are you, Red?”
If she says, thirty-seven, the game is over, though they may still fuck. Any number less than ten and there will be no penetration—his limit, not hers. The past few months, her go-to roles have been the perky cheerleader, the barely-legal cam girl, the runaway who’ll do anything for a cheeseburger and a soft place to sleep.
After the week she’s had, what she wants more than anything is to be carefree. You’d be surprised how much a teenager has to keep track of. Homework and extracurriculars, social engagements and the pressure to look, if not perfect, then ironically imperfect.
“Today’s my birthday,” she says in a small voice. “I’m twelve.”
Julian could say she looks older than twelve, in which case he’d be asking her to aim higher. But he knows her well enough to recognize that sometimes she needs to go deeper, darker, lower to the ground.
Some nights she needs to crawl.
“Happy birthday, Red. Why don’t you tell me where you live so I can bring you home?”
She recites her address slowly, stumbling over numbers.
He starts the engine. “Don’t forget your seatbelt.”
Pulling the belt across her chest, Robin deliberately struggles to fit the tongue inside the buckle. Julian chuckles, a bottomless rumble that judders her bones.
He exits the car.
Robin jumps as the rear door springs open. Julian smiles, his bold appraisal making her feel self-conscious. She can tell he’s already imagining how delectable she’ll look on all-fours, how juicy she’ll be once he’s done tenderizing her.
She half expects him to lick his chops.
“Allow me, sweet pea.” He leans in close, his dark chin-length hair brushing her chest as he fits his large hands over her smaller ones.
Robin holds her breath. He connects the seatbelt with a soft click, then squeezes her hands before releasing them.
He pats her knee. “There now. Safe and sound.”
All Hallows’ Eve is nearly upon us.
“Haunted Hearts: A Ghost Story” is a bittersweet, sexy—and dare I say haunting—tale about an eccentric widow, Rose Abbot, who taps into the mysterious power of her own grief to reconnect with her late husband.
“I almost wish we were butterflies and liv’d but three summer days—three such days with you I could fill with more delight than fifty common years could ever contain.” 
The folks over at 
