Seduced By The Rogue Alpha(2)

"Why does no one live in the South, Beatrice?" Annabel asked in an  attempt to steer Beatrice's single-minded fixation on work and her  ‘loving' attempt to turn her into a respectable woman.

"With all the Mist and other wild things down there, why would anyone  want to explore it, be they man, beast or changer? Silly girl, why do  you ask such questions? Do you think a husband would want to hear such  things? You mustn‘t ask such things."

"Yes, Beatrice." Annabel replied, weighed down by Beatrice's barrage of insults.

"Honestly, I don't know what goes through your head. Do you think you're  going to impress a suitor through oration? Ha! You've got neither a  pleasant mind or figure, your ability to work is the only attraction you  give."

"Yes, Beatrice." Annabel said, monotonously.

"Now close up the barn, wash yourself, and then come inside. I‘ve got a  tub of water still hot and waiting, wash off all of that dirt. I‘m going  to make you into something someone will want one way or another."                       
       
           



       

"Yes, Beatrice."



After finishing her chores, Annabel moved from the farmyard to the  washtub behind the cottage. She returned to her favorite daydream as she  stripped down slowly to her plain dress, without the routine  efficiency. The sounds of wolves could be heard in the woods around her.

"Perhaps," she thought playfully, "my ideal man isn't a man, or, not entirely."

One strap at time she removed her garments gradually, fully returning  her mind to the fantasy lover. She pulled at the edges of her dress  until her voluptuous tits popped out of the top with an amusing jiggle.  She slowly slid down her togs, imagining how her sensual rogue in her  daydreams would, until her whole body was exposed to the cold night. His  image was still majestic and magnificent, but this time, also  possessing a bit of bestial appearance. As her rosy nipples began to  tighten, Annabel lowered herself into the still-hot bath. She gasped as  the wave of contentment washed over her, in the form of all surrounding  warm, wetness. Grabbing a thick chunk of soap, Annabel massaged her  engorged breasts, painting her now ruddy body in creamy white lather. Up  the back of her neck, through her cleavage, all around her ample  curves, and down, down on her lower back she rubbed the bar pretending  it to be her lovers brawny hands, dexterous tongue, and thick hard …

"Ar-hooo … " an exceptionally long howl rang through the valley in the  growing dark. Beatrice rushed outside to loudly shrill to Annabel to  return inside, quickly.

"Come on now, you should be clean by now. And remember, a man doesn't even want tampered goods, let alone damaged ones."

With a suppressed groan of frustration, Annabel did as she was told and  gathered her clothes and ventured into the cottage while wrapped in a  small, itchy towel. She was still dripping wet as Beatrice stripped her  of her meager covering and hastily dried her in front of a long,  full-looking glass. That mirror was the most expensive thing that the  family had ever owned and Annabel hated it. Just like the wolves outside  the door, she detested peering into its reflective surface. Looking  into it at her naked figure, she felt inadequate compared to the lean  girls of the village, with her tremendous curves and hefty bosom. But,  at the same time, it gave her a sense of identity and uniqueness. Her  body set her apart from everyone else, perhaps even the quality which  would make her stand out to the ideal man she'd hoped for. Beatrice  dried her and loudly identified the abnormalities on her body, driving  in the notion that she is less desirable. She particularly checked the  redness of her breasts and inner legs.

"We're going to have to do something about your unacceptably plump  exterior. You haven't been sneaking food have you?" Beatrice asked  accusingly.

"No, Beatrice," this was a constant accusation with Beatrice, which  Annabel always answered truthfully. She had been on an austere diet ever  since her father had died, which had done little to reduce her liberal  build. Beatrice continued to pat Annabel dry all while droning on about  fixing Annabel‘s ‘problem'.

"Well, I'm making some dresses for you which should make you much more  appealing to the young men. Why, I think I could set you up with the  baker's son. It's not an ideal match but … "

Taking note of the damp patch of skin between Annabel's legs, which  stubbornly stayed moist, due to Annabel‘s earlier titillation, Beatrice  gasped in shock.

"Annabel, you haven't been-?"

"Been what?"

"Touching, no abusing yourself!?"

"Beatrice, of course not," Annabel snapped back and grabbing the towel from her panicked mother.

"It isn't proper, you know. Young women like you shouldn't be engaging  in such self-gratifying filth. It‘s bad enough you don‘t look like much  of one-"

"I understand Beatrice!" Annabel yelled. "I understand I'm not what you want me to be, but you can't … "

"Can't what? Look out for you? Try to achieve the best for you?"  Beatrice's roared, but upon seeing Annabel's jaded expression, her anger  turned to a bizarre form of manipulative compassion all with the intent  to incite guilt from Annabel. "I just want what's best for you. I'm so  sorry I yelled, child. Now, just go to bed and we‘ll forget all about  this." Beatrice lightly patted Annabel, smiling, and sent her off.



Off in her bed, Annabel dreamt that night of running through the woods  free and unfettered, sprinting with the skin changing Lycans. There, in  that nighttime reverie, she could enjoy both sides of Lycan life, run  boundlessly as a wolf and make love as a man. Something she thought  while fanciful but was not quite impossible.                       
       
           



       



The following morning, Annabel rose with the sun, performing her litany  of morning tasks with Beatrice monitoring her. Annabel secretly waited,  performing her tasks but anticipating her afternoon venture into the  wide, open field. She counted the hours down, so she could finally be  free. When the time came, she fled into the wide, windy pastures for  leafy herbs and juicy tubers. But best of all, was the simple joy of  experiencing the verdant, sunlit country, the place where the outskirts  of civilization and the wilds met. There, she communed with grass and  flowers and nectar-laced gales, occasionally taking time to dream of her  ideal suitor.



For weeks, this continued, and for weeks, Annabel would wander into the  village once a week to sell her goods and hear stories of village folk  battling the ill skinned changers in the wild Wood. The tales became  increasingly fantastic, particularly among the young men. They often  involved heroic battles with the beasts, raids on enormous dens, even  rumors that the Lycans had even infiltrated the village and were waiting  to plot the people's doom. Despite all of this, Annabel found it  amusingly suspicious that none of the lads never returned with a pelt or  wolf's paw to prove their boasts.

And, so, the monotonous routine continued with only occasional  variation. Every few months, Beatrice would march Annabel in front of  the long mirror to try on a series of dresses, which were supposed to  hide her so-called ‘horribly excessive curves'. The stories of men  reporting their valiant patrols of the wild Wood around the village  became far more fantastic and thus, farcical.

But as the summer began to wane on a not too unusual afternoon in a  field of high grass, Annabel heard heavy rasping exhales. She froze,  still looking around, afraid to even think of what it might be. A musky  scent clung around her. The taste of blood in the air and matted fur  assaulted her nose and the beating sounds of a hounds' breathe echoed in  her ears. Only, it was far bigger than a mere hound.

Gulping deeply and walked cautiously forward, Annabel moved through the  waist-high grass until she came to a clearing where she found herself  face-to-face with the beast. A wolf, one far larger than she had ever  seen, stood before her all black-furred with only a few accents of white  and grey. The animal snarled, causing Annabel to leap back in alarm.  But then, she collected herself in a strangely rapid manner.

"Look to the actions and search their eyes, they'll speak truth that's where their intent lies," she whispered.

Rather than observing with dread at the wolf's trim, but muscled body,  or its exposed fangs and claws, she looked instead into its eyes. Those  deep amber orbs didn't threaten attack but betrayed vulnerability, fear,  bizarrely even tenderness. Feeling emboldened, Annabel slowly inched to  her left to find the wolf bore a large gash on his thigh. She held her  hand out, at first tentatively, then, confidently, she moved towards the  animal. In response, the wolf withdrew his bare fangs, then, carefully  sniffed Annabel's inviting palm, then licking it. Annabel stayed there,  gradually moving closer for the wolf to inspect its wound.