Seduced By The Rogue Alpha
Amira Rain
Shifter Shorts Series
A soft, summer evening breeze blew through Annabel's golden hair as she strolled through the green sea of pasture. Only the faint tips of forest trees to the west, and her farm cottage to the east, were visible . A vastness surrounded her. She saw herbs, quaint shrubs, peppered by the sight of all manner of flowers, including her favorite, daffodils. Here, she heard the songs of the wind, the chorus' of birds in trees, and saw canvases of color and shadow. In this sanctuary, her mind found refuge from the grim realities of her everyday life and the savagery of the wild Wood beyond.
Out here, she was emancipated from the mundane routine of daily chores she was to perform. As soon as the sun rose, she was to sweep the stables, milk the cattle, clean the coops, collect eggs, let loose the horses and a series of other tasks all while her mother viciously chided her. Here, she relished the small reprieve out of the drudgery of simple farm life.
Her task was to gather herbs, berries, and medicinal roots into her woven basket, but out here, she had liberty to imagine, to freely love the good earth, and to escape the most horrid of all words. It wasn't a word to be used with a dark curse or place an arcane hex; it wasn‘t a word that induced a spell, at least in the conventional sense; it was a word far more potent, one that Annabel that had been repeated to her since she was young: ‘normal'. While not particularly queer, Annabel had always been a little odd. While not dumpy or misshapen she had always been somewhat rotund, a trait which her mother Beatrice had always reminded her of with a bitter sneer.
"Young women should be thin and dainty, not corpulent and buxom," she'd constantly chastise.
Even when Annabel was very young, unusual proportions were evident, not due to gluttony or sloth as others in the village suspected, but something innate within her. It was as if her body simply wanted to be bigger, as if it wanted to stand out from all the slender girls her age. At least, that's what her father told her. He had told her to be proud of whom she was, rather care how others saw and thought of her. He also warned her to not be fooled by the form of a person, no matter how fair and elegant, but instead, look at their merits.
"Don't be deceived by the faces people wear," he warned, "they act like masks designed to hide their true character."
"Then how will I know what they're really like and what they want?" Annabel asked.
"Look at their actions," he'd reply, "their actions and their eyes."
That was some of the oldest, but best advice Annabel's father had ever given her before he passed seven years ago. It was one of the few memories left of him now, that, and the knowledge of the herbs and wood he had passed down to her.
When he died, Beatrice tried to rid the farm of everything that would trigger a memory, to escape her grief. While cathartic and soothing for her mother, Annabel thought it was horrible, even cruel, to try and purge the memory of someone so dear.
Beatrice began to see Annabel as a reminder of her late husband and therefore grew detached. Rather than acting as a mother, she became an overbearing nanny, always throwing out criticism and judgment. She had doubled the regimen of chores Annabel was to do and did away with all but her most necessary, proletariat possessions. All of her dolls, fancy brushes, even her personally made bottle of perfume were tossed out.
"You can't hold on to these childish attachments, you‘re becoming a woman now and in this world, women are only good for two things: finding a suitor by their prettiness and poise or by their ability to maintain a man's household. And you certainly aren't going to able to achieve the former." Beatrice had said this over and over again, always with the same scorn. At first, the mantra hurt, but then, Annabel learned to smile and ignore the insult. Instead, she resolved to be who she desired to be, as well as, to be with the person she wanted. She didn't care if she wouldn't be wed to the most charming blacksmith's son or the wealthiest heir in the village. She wanted a boy, no, a man, to be as gallant as the greatest of all the kingdoms' knights, yet still wild and ferocious.
It had been nearly nine years since Annabel had become a woman, and, in that time, she was forbidden to consort with the lads of her choice. Beatrice insisted Annabel's suitors be chosen by her, for the sole purpose of acquiring the most land and wealth for their family. Unfortunately, Beatrice's efforts had been unsuccessful. Between suitors finding Annabel's added girth undesirable and everyone finding Beatrice down right unbearable, no match had ever been possible. For Annabel, the frustration of handling the deep, repressed carnal urges had become another chore, as well. But recently, she had learned to cope by taking advantage of her time alone in the open grass fields.
Annabel tossed her basket aside and threw herself down into the soft grass while imaging her ideal suitor, some type of out-of-place rapscallion. She desired someone who was unencumbered by what custom dictated or paid no mind to the petty opinions of tradition. But, most of all, she wanted a man to take her into the lush, dew soaked field, tear her dress to pieces, expose her flesh to the raw soil below and the high winds above. She wanted someone to spread her legs and plunge deep; to deliver the savage, unmentionable pleasures men give to women; to touch her in ways her mother would never approve even within the strict confines of a marriage. Annabel began to lose herself in the carnal whimsy, guiding her hands up and down her plush torso, as she imagined her ideal man would. With one hand, she caressed her neck, and the other she planted to her nether, slowly spreading apart the folds in her dress to reach down into her sodden loins. As she closed her eyes, she could see him, this elusive, heroic lover, dark-haired and burly, coaxing wide her legs all the while licking, sucking, caressing every inch of her figure. A soft sign of ecstasy escaped Annabel's mouth as her fingers fit where her fancied partners sword would find its sheath and the two of them would create a perfect moment in time when everything else would fall together in its perfect place.
Unfortunately, with cruel timing, the droning bells of the village tower rang. Annabel's eyes snapped open as her fantasy was waylaid. The rhythmic chimes signaled the sun was setting and wild things were to come out. Fierce animals of the night, and things far worse: skin-changing folk who could transform from beast to men under the cover of night. They came in all manner of folk and forms: the Lycans who became wolves, the Vixen who became fox, the Miun who became cats, they were only recognized by the small tail they bore, even when disguised as men. Or so she had been told. All children in the village had heard stories of strange tailed-men who could alter themselves into the shape of animals and would carry women out of their beds into the wilds of the Mist. Annabel laughed aloud, wishing if only they would whisk her away. Upon reaching the cottage, just before the sun fell completely from the sky. She could see her mother hurriedly putting the horses and cattle into the stalls.
"I'm back, Beatrice. I've got some thyme, Valerian, and a bag of poppy seeds," Annabel announced. Since her father's death, Annabel was required to call her mother by her given name, and not mother.
"Well, it's about time. I've been back here finishing your work and what've you been doing? Skipping around, picking flowers like a half-witted child." Then, she changed her tone. "You know I only want the best for you. I give you my love and you do these things. Why do you do this to me, making me worry about you all day till the break of night?"
"These Valerian leaves are quite big." Annabel responded, ignoring Beatrice.
"They should fetch a good price at the market." Even though Annabel was accustomed to Beatrice's abuse, or at the very least ignoring it, after so many years of hearing it, the full disparagement had begun to press on Annabel's spirit.
"Hmm, have you got any wolfs bane?" Beatrice asked, rummaging through Annabel‘s basket. "You should have gotten some wolfs bane That'll be in high demand soon. The men say the Lycans are up to something. Come on." Beatrice beckoned Annabel inside, taking the basket from her.
"The wolves? What would the wolves want with us?" Annabel asked, interested.
"Those animals? Who knows? I heard there's a hunt tonight. The sooner they're either dead or run off, the better. Or even better, send them to suffer the South."