Seduced By The Rogue Alpha (BBW Shifter Romance)

SEDUCED BY THE

ROGUE ALPHA

AMIRA RAIN

Shifter Shorts Series

About This Story:

Annabel has always lived a simple life within the village and kept herself to herself.

Things change when she meets a rogue alpha Lycan named Dirk and they develop a surprisingly intimate connection.

However, as the sentiment of hatred between humans and wolves begins to grow the loved up couple will find both their love and their loyalty will be tested to the maximum...

WAIT....

Get Yourself a FREE Bestselling Paranormal Romance Book!

Join the “
Simply Shifters
” Mailing list today and gain access to an exclusive
FREE
classic Paranormal Shifter Romance book by one of our bestselling authors along with many others more to come.  You will also be kept up to date on the best book deals in the future on the hottest new Paranormal Romances. We are the HOME of Paranormal Romance after all!

Click The Link Below To Access Get All This Now!

SimplyShifters.com

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.”

“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-”