Woolcraft (Eira Woolcott, M/F)

It was a decision that I made purely on a whim.  I had been stuck in a rut, unable to make any meaningful headway on my novel for months on end.  One would think this would have been a golden opportunity to write, as a plague from Spain had forced much of the city’s populace to remain quarantined in their flats.   Yet, the bleakness of the situation had only worsened my desire to do anything productive.  With how the radio broadcasts were describing the world outside, what good would finishing my book be if there was no one left alive to read it?

A letter had arrived not too long ago from a fellow author, who I will refer to as Ray.  He too, had given up on the literary arts, but instead of wallowing in defeat like myself, Ray found a new obsession; the occult.  Ignoring curfew, fanatics like him would flock to secret meeting spots not just to obtain some much-needed socialization in these trying times, but also to indulge in the latest trend of obscure religious worship.   Naturally, I found the whole thing to be ridiculous; the only thing worse than unemployment was accelerating the inevitability of homelessness by spending your last remaining funds on such juvenile hobbies.  Yet, I would be lying if I said that it didn’t spark some morbid curiosity in me.  There were scarce details on what would actually occur at these events; Ray was fond of surprises, much to my chagrin.  Supposedly, this next ritual was going to be exceedingly special.  “A once in a lifetime experience,” he swore.

The next meeting of his “flock,” as he called it, would be in the nearby woods this weekend, and he included instructions on how to get there by foot under the guise of night.  All I needed was a cloak and a mask; anonymity was key.  Frugal as I was, I made due with my old army coat, a blanket, and my gas mask from the Great War.  I looked at the dusty lenses of the latter with a tinge of regret, as this was the first time it would actually see any real use.  Other veterans would often speak about the horrors of the front lines, but if I had been there instead of being stuck behind a desk for the entire conflict, I doubt I would run out of inspiring material for writing ever again.  I also holstered my Webley, just in case.  It was more out of concern with encountering the local wildlife during the venture more than anything else.

As night fell on the fated day, I crept down the fire escape of my complex to be greeted with absolute silence on the streets.  It was if the city itself was scared stiff from the plague.  Not a single soul other than me stirred on the sidewalks, making my footsteps and muffled breathing ring out all the louder. Despite the solitude, I felt awkward in my makeshift costume.  If someone did see me prowling out here, they would surely think I was some deranged vagabond or robber, what with my sheets pinned into a hood and the lens of my mask glinting in the gaslight.  Thankfully, I lived near the outskirts of the city, and the embarrassment passed once trees began to replace the looming buildings.  It took only a mile or so of walking to reach the first checkpoint, which was a popular camping spot often used during the summer season.  There, I was instructed to “feel” my way towards the gathering; torches were verboten.  At first, I thought I was being tricked, as there was nary a sign nor hint as to where to go next.  What little moonlight shone revealed nothing out of the ordinary among the long-abandoned campfires that dotted the area.  Out of frustration, I took off my gas mask, and that’s when it hit me.

To accurately describe the scent that permeated the air would be impossible.  Initial impressions were that of a faraway, unkempt menagerie.  Slightly nauseating, but after a few breaths, an undercurrent of something else came through.  Was it musk, perhaps?  Ashamedly, I am none too versed in regards to the fairer sex, but it closely reminded me of the base, the structure of femininity.  That reassuring fragrance of what a woman is that is often concealed under layers of perfume, one that rears its head only for a moment when brushing against the wives of the bourgeoisie in the richer side of the city. 

Whatever it was, it awoke something that long laid dormant within me.  Into the thicket I went, letting my nose guide me through the shadows.  For what seemed like ages I stumbled through that forest, lamenting that this was the first real bout of exercise I’ve received since boot camp.  Initially, I took my time around the roots and limbs, recalling the drills and training I had received long ago during my time in the army, but as the scent grew stronger I threw caution the wind.  What would people think of me now, covered in tatters and stooping to all fours like a beast after prey?

No sooner could I mull over this decision did I come upon a clearing, and immediately slipped down what appeared to be a small valley.  Once I came to a halt, I realized I had reached my intended destination.  Other people, dressed in robes as described in the letter, were perched upon the bank.  One of them stood up and walked over to me, holding a finger up as he slipped my mask onto my face once more.  As he helped me back onto my feet, I knew full well that he was Ray.  We hadn’t seen each other since before the pandemic, yet I could never forget that limp-wristed grip of his.  There were a great deal of things I wanted to catch up with him on, but my head was reeling; where was the source of that all-encompassing smell?  It was so strong now that even my filter couldn’t fully block it out. 

I was shown a seat; the rite was about to start.  Gazing around, I surmised that this must have been an amphitheater, no doubt from ancient Roman times.  Much of the stonework was now covered in grass and mold, but the center tiles still shone clear in the scant moonlight.  There, large red candles were assembled in the shape of a pentagram, inside of which stood a small, ornately carved wooden chair.  If I knew that my friend was just into something as quaint as Satanism and drugged fumes, I would have never bothered with all of this.

It was at that moment that I heard a faint clatter of footsteps, akin to hard heels on cobblestone roads.  A figure emerged from the darkness, yet it always seemed to be in the corner of my eye.  The thing approached at an impossible angle, and only the will to remain civil like the rest of the group kept me in my seat.  I dug my fingers into my thighs and thanked the stars that my coat was thick enough to cover the primal excitement straining against my trousers.  It was a woman; I didn’t need to see nor hear her clearly at this point to know that.  She was the epitome of sex, and I would burn in hell a thousand times over for what I would do if I laid hands on her right now.

Only when she took her seat on the throne was I finally able to focus on her details.  Much like her followers, she too was clad in black robes, with a skull-like mask adorning her face.  At first glance, her appearance seemed rather familiar to that of the Mari Lwyd from local Yule festivities, although she was much shorter than those who typically carried out that morbid tradition.  As she got comfortable, a series of soft metal clicks rung out from the amphitheater, although I paid this no heed; that woman was the only thing on my mind.  What was she hiding?  Was a censer burning forbidden incense under her weaves?  My knees buckled, and the jingle that followed led me to realize that I and the other cultists were now restrained by short, silver chains driven into the stones.  Heavy breathing filled the air; the anticipation was more than palpable.  Slowly, the woman raised her right hand, first asking for silence, and then taking it as she curled her digits into a fist.  As an unseen vice gripped my very core, she lowered her hand and pointed her index finger at Ray.

A sickening envy instantly boiled up within me as I heard his bindings release, but I had to let him go; even my lungs refused to move in this current state.  All I could do was watch as he walked to the center and knelt in front of his leader.  She lifted off his mask, letting her fingers trace along his pasty face before settling into a grip on his scalp, while her free hand pulled up her robe.

To say that all hell broke loose would have been an understatement.  The cultists, once freed from the otherworldly grasp, reverted to animals, screaming and howling at what they now beheld.  Some of them clawed at their chains, while others unfurled their pants and grabbed their shafts without a care at all about public decency.  My only saving grace, once more, was my choice in masks and God keeping the filter functional.  The thing in the chair was no mortal beast.  Fleece and hooves like that of a sheep graced the forms of thick, womanly legs.  Were the rest of her revealed I would not be surprised if we were in the presence of Baphomet itself.  In the dim light of the candles, I had first thought that a loincloth of some sort was covering her groin, but only when she pulled Roy’s face towards it did I realize, in bleak fascination, that it was nothing more than an extensive smattering of woolen minge. 

Ray didn’t hold back.  His fingers dug deep into her plush thighs as he held her legs open to feast.  Beside me, a man was on the verge of snapping his shins against his bindings, howling swears, curses, and inane accusations of cuckoldry.   I struck him down; he was asking for it with his spittle-covered chin jutting out as it were in his fervor.  My knuckles ached from the impact, but the dopamine rush afterwards more than made up for it.  Lust wasn’t the only emotion that was taking over the crowd.  Raw, primitive instinct sprung from long dormant caches within us, and letting a facet of it be quelled was the only way I was going to keep my wits about me.  Who was the next madman to fall?  My Webley rubbed against me as I stirred about, like a cat craving attention.

Just as I was squaring up the cultist below me, a loud boom thundered out from the crowd.   Roars changes to cries of fear, and I saw smoke pluming from a glint of steel on the other side of the amphitheater.  The demon’s head was cocked back, her mask now fractured from the impact of a bullet.  I immediately sprung for my own pistol, but that unseen hand pinned me in place before it could clear leather.  At a glacial pace, she turned her gaze upon the gunman, who still held his pistol as level as he could with his shaky hands.  Ray remained unfazed from what was going on, lapping like a dog at the golden forest that now engulfed his face.  

With her free hand, she pressed her index finger against her temple, and the shooter mimicked the movement with his gun.  Her breathing was getting heavy.  She pulled her thumb back like a hammer, and the legs that dangled on the shoulders of my friend began to tighten.  It was a sight meant to be savored.  The sinner was about to be condemned, and the ritual was reaching its peak.  Her thumb came down.  A guttural bleat echoed out from the broken mask, followed by another bang and a sickening crunch as her knees touched together.

She was gone.  In her chair laid Ray’s head, crushed like a melon and leaking ichor onto the seat.  Our bindings fell way with a faint clatter, and the mob rushed to the center tiles.  They weren’t there to render aid.  Her bittersweet scent still soured the air.  Savage fighting broke out over who could savor the last few moments of their idol.

I ran.  With how sodden Ray was with her fluids, I knew there would be nothing to salvage from him after they were done with his corpse.  I dove once more into the thickets, having not a clue as to where I was.  It was impossible to escape her scent.  She was everywhere.  Snagging a tree root, I stumbled onto the ground, and laid there as I struggled against spent filters.  I saw the many branches of the forest in the coming morning sun, and I could swear that their tips had taken on a golden hue.  The grass below me felt unnaturally soft.  I obviously wasn’t thinking straight; suffocation and fatigue were taking their toll.  Out of desperation, I ripped off the filter from my mask, only to see yellow wool spill out from within.  I looked up to see her again.  Her mask and robe were gone, but all I could make out above her fleece were two square pupils flanked by gold and warped into an impossibly-smug glare.  She descended, and her gilded forest swallowed me whole.

---

The following events were relayed to me by the authorities the next day.  I had been mistaken for a vagrant at the campgrounds, wrapped up in my frayed blanket and with my mask missing.   Subsequently, I was fined for breaking quarantine.  They didn’t want to bother jailing people for petty offenses during these trying times, thankfully.  There was no mention of obscene activities or any commotions in the forest, although two people were eventually added to the newspaper’s missing persons page, one of which being Ray.  I dared not speak officially of what I saw on that fated night, and merely told the police that I indeed went camping after yearning for some fresh air.  To be fair, I was never that close to the man, and I owed him no favors after what he dragged me into.

I couldn’t get her out of my head.  Even back at the safety of my flat, her lingering perfume, like that of a zoo crossed with a brothel, would haunt me no matter how well I cleaned myself and my home.  She was there still, in the corner of my eye, staring from the shadows as I tried to sleep.  She only fully made herself known in the witching hours when exhaustion finally took hold.

On my first night back, I dreamt that I was a farmer, toiling away in the fields in my lonesome.  The sun was setting and I made my way back home to a little house on the horizon.  It was a simple life, one that I fancied from time to time after being stuck in the city for so long.  I went through the foyer, and she was there, barefoot and pregnant, dressed only in a white apron as she prepared dinner in the kitchen.   Her little cloven hooves clattered against the linoleum as she worked, leaving nothing to the imagination as her dainty form jiggled with each step.  I expected to see the devil, but she was more akin to the ancient fertility goddess statues that grace so many museums, with the only differences being her woolen legs and a large pair of horns sprouting from her scalp.

I heaved her up onto the dining table; despite her extra cargo, she was as light as a feather in my hands.  All I wanted was to make her a happy mother of a flock larger than the one I tended to.  I wanted to enter her and only leave when I was a husk of a man.  Yet, that moment never came.  A smug smile crept over her face, and I awoke just before I could take her.  The second night would be no different.

Paris.  I was there briefly during the war, dealing with logistics as the front lines raged on just a few miles away.  As most of the men were in the trenches, those that remained were accosted by droves of harlots eager to make any extra money during these times of rations and famine.  I always ignored them, as I fancied myself as a righteous Catholic, yet tonight would prove to be different.  Under a lone gaslight at the end of a crooked lane leaned a girl with short golden locks.  Parting her hair was a pair of decorated caprine horns.  A coat of fleece loosely draped from her shoulders, revealing a low-cut black dress that was near to bursting from her bosom.  She didn’t need to say a word.  Our eyes met, and she pointed her chin towards a nearby alley before sauntering towards it.  There, she pulled down her top, and I could swear that her mounds were bigger than her head.  She went for my belt, not needing to kneel to service me at her petite height.  My member flopped out, stiff as could be; but once again, I awoke before I could sink it into her heaving chest.

This would set a trend that I could never escape from.  Even if I drugged myself, or released my seed over and over before bed, I would still be placed in these same scenarios whenever I closed my eyes.  I couldn’t concentrate on anything other than that damned woman, perpetually teasing me just out of sight.  It only dawned on me, weeks later, that she was trying to tell me something.  I felt like a fool for not realizing it sooner.  Why were people flocking to her to begin with?  They wanted release, a bit of comfort in these times of isolation.  I could bring that same joy to others as well. 

Under a new pen name I abandoned my goals of being a novelist in lieu of magazine work.  While the latest trends of pulp fiction centered around lowbrow fantasy and science fiction, I was keen on taking it a step further.  It didn’t take long to catch the interest of a few underground publishers with samples of my work.  While Tijuana Bibles were making their rounds across the pond, so to was smut on the rise in the more uncouth areas of Spain, Italy, and France.   Even if the pay was low at first, it did not matter; new content was given to me nightly.  She would provide the start in my dreams, a taste of what to come, and I would simply finish the rest on paper in the morning.  Although, this process wasn’t always smooth; if a story wasn’t up to her standards, a critique would be issued in the form of nightmares with her suffocating me with her sodden minge.

And that is how The Fleeced Woman came to be.  For awhile I did not know what to name her, nor did I think she needed one; an air of mystery was always about her, both in reality and fiction, and I was fit to never change that.  However, she gave me a particularly strange dream around the peak of her literary infamy.  There were families watching stage shows from the comfort of their homes.  She was there, too, as an act of her own, and strangely, this was the first time she was genuinely wholesome.  There were no tricks or dances on display.  Her audience would send her messages and praise, and she would simply answer them in sequential order in the thickest Welsh accent I’ve ever heard.  All of these letters had her name, and it rang out clearly as she read them: 

Eira Woolcott.