"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.