Page 19 of A Prize for the Lycan Enemy

I didn’t say they could make fun of her or make her feel unwelcome. Dan dumped a bowl of food on top of her head. She hasn’t brought it up and so it seems to me it’s not a big deal to her, but I take issue with what he did.

Perhaps she’s never been hungry, but for us, wasting a bowl of fish soup is a big deal. It’s definitely a big deal when a breeder accepts a courting meal and then ends up being made fun of. I’m having a hard time with the Kilseleians as it is, what with us being of different species and languages, thus culture, and I need no Dan or Dan-like arseholes making the situation harder than it already is.

Outside, I scratch the back of my neck.

The males gathered here are waiting to be let up for a chance to present their catch.

“The breeder is bathing now since Dan spilled food all over her.”

“Sonofabitch,” someone shouts at the same time as another male says, “Cockblock.” And yet another male, “She deserves worse.”

My clan is dividing before my eyes. This McMar pussy might cost me my head. If it was just my head, I wouldn’t mind so much, but I think if I’m gone, Dan will run the clan straight into the ground. He would provoke the much-stronger McMars, and they’d destroy us.

Luckily for us, the McMars haven’t figured out we’re divided or that we’ve had a hard turn. Some of us died in the floods, others abandoned the clan for greener pastures with the Kilseleians who fled the lycan shores, fearing Lenox’s wrath for threatening his mate.

“Anyone seen Dan?” I ask.

“In his hut.”

With a nod, I head for his house to confront him, but I find myself walking around my house, and before I can help myself, I’ve rounded my house. Instinct guided me here. Fine. I keep moving, wondering where the fuck I’ll end up, knowing exactly where I want to be and don’t want to be.

The snow’s not as deep in the forest as it is elsewhere, and the tracks of the patrol wolves are long covered. I dislike other males lurking around the back of the cabin, even if they’re my clan mates and are on general patrol of the grounds. If I were in my wolf animal, I’d lift my leg and piss on a few trees, but since I’m not, I rub my shoulder on a trunk (or ten) as I walk toward the edge of the lake.

Crouching there like a predator stalking a meal, I watch the females inside my house. Philippa is dragging buckets of water and filling the barrel, while Marybell sits on the couch looking like a pouting child. She rolls her eyes and disappears from my view, but thankfully for my beating heart, very briefly, only long enough to fetch more water.

I guess she’s used to physical labor. Out here in the forest and mountain, her endurance and history of labor will serve her well. I heard she is a hard worker. And loyal. And now I shall find out what she hides under those skirts.

Philippa pulls up a chair near the barrel, then walks away while Marybell starts undressing. First the apron, then the ugly dress. Underneath, she wears more garments, and by the time she gets to the underpants and undershirts, half my lifetime has passed. Good grief, female, why so much clothing?

Marybell catches the last garment by the hem and pulls it up and over her body. What she reveals makes me instantly hard. Semen spurts out of the head of my knob and wets my pants. I grab my crotch and squeeze.

Marybell has an hourglass shape with wide hips, a narrow waist, and large titties that weigh slightly more than the muscle can hold up, so they dip with nipples pointing upward. The nipples are large. It makes me instantly want to suck them. Goddess, how I love her tits.

Pain shoots up my middle.

I squeeze my balls harder and whine.

Marybell gets into the bath and dunks under immediately. Philippa sits on the chair beside the barrel and helps Marybell wash her hair. Marybell bats Philippa’s hands away, but stops struggling once Philippa starts talking. Then Marybell looks up at her, and they exchange words, finally seeming to settle whatever differences they had that kept them fighting. I’m curious about the two females. I wonder if Philippa is the other breeder Marybell suggested she’d “get.”

And how would she get one? It’s not like breeders are for sale.

Are they?

The females chat a bit, then Marybell is alone for a while, and I think Philippa has left. The barrel hides Marybell’s body, but I know when a female is pleasuring herself. Her head is thrown back, her lips parted, and when she bites her bottom lip, I groan, barely keeping my hands away from doing exactly what she’s doing. Pleasuring myself.

She throws her leg up and over the rim of the barrel.

I tuck my hand into my pants and fist myself and watch her as if she’s a tiny little mouse peeking out of the hole and I’m the big bad wolf that’s starving for a meal. My hand moves fast, too fast, and I hope hers does too, because my balls are tightening, ready to shoot cum all over the snow, but I hold off because I want to synchronize our pleasure.

I feel like a teenager.

I can’t remember the last time I’ve felt this alive, this excited about anything.

The prospect of a Kilseleian breeder in my clan makes me want to bite someone.

Her. I want to bite her. On the shoulder, breast, the thigh.

Marybell nibbles her bottom lip and squints. When her toes curl and her leg twitches, I know she’s coming. I release myself with a silent roar and have to prop myself against the tree before fixing my pants.

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